by Chris Carter
The FBI had tried recruiting him several times, first as a profiler then as an agent, but for some reason, not mentioned in Brian’s report, Detective Hunter had politely declined each and every offer, choosing to stay with the LAPD. The FBI’s NCAVC Director had once said that Robert Hunter was the best criminal behavior profiler the FBI had never had.
After joining the police force, straight after his Ph.D., Hunter had moved through its ranks at lightning speed, becoming the youngest officer to have ever made detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Since then, his track record had been second to none. He had closed almost every investigation he had ever led. The ones he was unable to were brought to as near completion as humanly possible.
Robert Hunter was now the lead detective for the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit of the LAPD Homicide Special Section. Inside the LAPD, the UVC Unit was also known as the Freakshow Unit, not because of its team of detectives, but because of the kind of criminals they chased. It was the type of unit most detectives would give their right arm not to be assigned to.
‘I was wondering if I could maybe ask you a quick question over the phone,’ Hunter said, seeing no point in trying to make any small talk.
‘Yes, of course, Detective. Whatever I can help with.’ Time to become the clueless Mr. Jenkinson again.
‘Could I ask you,’ Hunter began, ‘have you had any work done to your house recently?’
‘Work?’
‘Yes,’ Hunter clarified. ‘Renovations, paint jobs, quick fixes, plumbing, installations, anything at all where a stranger had to visit your home?’
It took a couple of seconds for Mr. J’s fatigued brain to fully engage. The photos on the mantelpiece, he realized. Cassandra’s killer didn’t get the idea for that damn question right there and then . . . he’d been to the house before. Not only that, but he knew I wouldn’t know the answer to that question. That whole game was a farce. The gears inside his mind started spinning faster. Any work done to the house? Any installations? Anything at all where a stranger had to visit your home? Think, goddamnit, think.
‘Mr. Jenkinson?’
‘Cassandra was the one who usually dealt with anything like that,’ Mr. J finally replied. ‘But she’d always let me know for budget purposes and all.’ Another short pause. ‘I can’t recall anything, Detective. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s fine,’ Hunter replied. ‘At the moment we’re just speculating around the little we have, really.’
‘I understand, and I’m very sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be, Mr. Jenkinson.’
Hunter knew that in addition to being completely exhausted, Mr. Jenkinson’s head would be a total mess of emotions, and memories, and images, and everything else, not to mention the overly destructive feeling of guilt that Hunter knew had already settled in. Right now, for anyone in Mr. Jenkinson’s shoes, trying to recall simple memories – like a repairman coming to the house for whatever reason – would be a monstrous uphill battle.
‘If anything comes to mind,’ Hunter said, ‘anything at all, please call me straight away, no matter the time of day or night.’
‘Of course, Detective,’ Mr. J replied. ‘If I remember anything, I’ll call you immediately.’
What Hunter didn’t know was that Mr. J had lied.
Sixty-One
Garcia had just finished making a brand new pot of coffee when Hunter stepped back into their office. The mouthwatering smell of the strong Brazilian brew Garcia had used had completely intoxicated the air and Hunter found it impossible to resist. Not that he wanted to, anyway. He walked over to the machine and poured some into his mug. As he began stirring his coffee, Garcia chuckled, sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.
‘Why do you do that?’ he asked.
‘Do what?’
‘Stir your coffee? You drink it black. No sugar. No cream. No milk. There’s nothing for you to stir into the coffee, so why do it?’
‘I like the noise it makes,’ Hunter replied with a shrug, deliberately hitting the metal spoon against the side of the porcelain mug.
‘Yeah, I bet you do. You know, that’s just like putting water inside a shaker, adding absolutely nothing to it, shaking it vigorously, then drinking it. It’s still just water.’
‘Yes,’ Hunter replied. ‘But that would be water shaken, not stirred.’
‘Oh, hell, no,’ Garcia said, half laughing. ‘You didn’t just make a double-oh-seven joke, did you? That was absolutely awful, Robert.’
‘You laughed.’
‘That wasn’t a laugh.’
‘Yes it was.’
‘No it wasn’t . . . Anyway. Any luck?’ Garcia asked, referring to Hunter’s phone call to John Jenkinson.
‘No,’ Hunter replied, placing his mug on his desk. ‘He can’t remember any sort of work being done to their house recently. No technicians either, but he said that his wife was the one who took care of things like that.’
‘Just like we thought,’ Garcia agreed.
As they’d left Mr. Jenkinson’s house that morning, before getting to the coroner’s office, Hunter and Garcia had asked Operations to run a search, backtracking all of Cassandra Jenkinson’s credit-card transactions in the past five years. The idea was to flag any sort of home improvement or home repair company she might’ve used, including electronic repairs, plumbers, gardeners, gutter cleaning, even delivery people who might’ve had to walk through her living room – a new sofa, new rug – anything. The same was also being done to Karen Ward’s credit cards. The lists would then be cross-referenced. If Karen and Cassandra had used the same company, or even the same tradesman at any time, they knew that they were probably on to something.
‘While on the phone,’ Hunter said, sipping his coffee. ‘I thought of something else. Let’s add John Jenkinson’s credit cards to our search. Maybe his wife used one of his to pay for something and forgot to tell him. If he’s not tight with his finances, he could’ve easily missed it.’
‘Good point,’ Garcia agreed, reaching for the phone on his desk.
Hunter finished his coffee and consulted his watch. ‘There’s something I need to go check with the forensics lab, but can I ask you a favor?’
‘Sure. By the way, this something you need to check doesn’t happen to be called Dr. Susan Slater, does it?’
‘What?’
‘Just saying. Anyway, what’s the favor?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘Remember how you came across the probable way in which our killer found out about Tanya Kaitlin not knowing Karen Ward’s cellphone number by heart?’
‘Of course, the entry on their friend’s social media page. Pete Harris. The brainlazy fun chart thing.’
‘I was thinking,’ Hunter said, ‘if the killer really used social media to gain that sort of information on Tanya Kaitlin, why wouldn’t he have tried the same thing to gain information on Cassandra Jenkinson’s husband?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that myself,’ Garcia admitted. ‘Don’t worry. I’m on it.’
Sixty-Two
As soon as he disconnected from the call with Hunter, Mr. J urged his exhausted brain to pick up speed. Until then, he had to admit that he was sold on the assumption that the idea for the killer’s wedding question had been something he had come up with on the spot, instigated by the photographs on the mantelpiece. The thought that maybe the killer had been to his home before had never crossed his mind. At least not yet, but it made sense. It made a hell of a lot of sense. When Hunter mentioned the possibility of a stranger entering the house – someone doing some sort of repair work, like a technician – then, and only then, the memory came back to him.
About two months ago, while he was away on another ‘business trip’, a major pipe had burst in their utility room, flooding most of the kitchen with it. Cassandra had called a plumber who had been recommended to her by a friend of hers. According to what she had told Mr. J, the plumber was a very skillful and friendly man. Not only did he fix the problem in a lot le
ss time than she expected he would, but he also helped dry the kitchen floor and put everything back in place. She also told him that he was a very pleasant man to talk to. Very chatty. She even mentioned that he had paid her a very nice compliment, saying that her husband was a lucky man. Once in conversation, extracting the information about Cassandra’s wedding anniversary would’ve been child’s play.
On the phone, while speaking to Hunter, Mr. J made a split-second decision to keep that information to himself, at least for the time being. He wanted to talk to the plumber first before the police did. Even if the detectives found out about the repair work, and Mr. J had no doubt they would eventually, Mr. J could easily blame his forgetfulness on his exhausted brain.
Cassandra had paid the plumber in cash, he clearly remembered her telling him that, but, as always, she had obtained a receipt, which also served as a guarantee for the work done. The receipt would be with all the other house receipts – in a drawer in their kitchen – but, before getting back to his house, Mr. J had to make one more phone call.
Sixty-Three
Once Hunter had left, Garcia went back to his computer. He had two separate browsers and several applications open at the same time. Essentially, what he’d been trying to do was find some sort of link between the two victims – places they both could’ve been to in the past, activities they enjoyed, groups they could’ve belonged to . . . anything.
Serial murderers rarely chose their victims at random. There was always something that would grab the killer’s attention and attract him to them. It could be a physical attribute, a mannerism, a tone of voice, a belief . . . the possibilities were almost endless and most of the time obscure, because in truth, they didn’t have to make sense to anyone else but the killer. To the outside world, it could be something as silly and insignificant as wiping their mouth from right to left, instead of left to right, but to the killer, for some reason, that insignificant action made him mad. Mad enough to want to kill.
Garcia knew that he was clutching at straws, but straws were really all they had at the moment.
He spent another half an hour or so trying a few new combinations, but they all ended up at a brick wall. Frustrated, Garcia got to his feet. What he really needed was a break.
He refilled his coffee mug and placed it on his desk. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he began pacing the room. Just like Hunter, he liked walking when he was thinking. He spent five minutes punishing the office floor before he got back to his seat.
Think out of the box, Carlos, he told himself. Think out of the box, because that’s exactly what this killer is doing. A few minutes later, he’d had a couple of very odd ideas. ‘Oh, what the hell! What have I got to lose, anyway?’
For the next forty minutes he scrolled through pages and pages of information, some of it mind-numbing. His eyes were watering and a ghost of a headache began haunting him. He decided to take another break and try something completely different, but just as he closed the browser tab he was on, something at the bottom of the page caught his eye for a fraction of a second.
‘Shit! What was that?’ he said, blinking a couple of times. Immediately, Garcia right-clicked on the browser window and selected ‘reopen closed tab’. The tab popped back up on his screen. He scrolled down and slowly read the entry.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
Sixty-Four
Michael Williams – that was the name of the plumber Cassandra had called to fix the burst pipe in her utility room two months earlier. Despite paying him cash instead of using one of her credit cards, Cassandra had demanded a receipt. She had always been very strict and organized when it came to those, especially when that receipt also doubled as a guarantee for the work done.
Williams was employed by a company called NoLeaks Plumbing, based in Sylmar, San Fernando Valley. It took Mr. J just one phone call to get a residential address on Williams. The drive there took him just over an hour.
The house was a small bungalow that sat halfway down a discreet dead-end street, just a couple of blocks away from the plumbing company itself. The entire property looked like it’d been neglected for years. Its front lawn was a mess, with overgrown patches of grass, dead leaves from nearby trees, and rubbish sprinkled all over the place. The house itself looked tired and in desperate need of some repairs. Its once vibrant yellow had lost its fight against the Californian sun years ago, fading into a pastel cream color that reminded Mr. J of sour milk. The front door, with an oval bevel glass window, was dirty and stained with what looked to be either oil marks or grease. The windowsills were peeling and riddled with dry rot. There was no driveway, but parked on the street, directly in front of the house, was a black Chevy Mark 2 van, with the plumbing company’s logo, phone number and web address showing on both sides of it.
Mr. J walked up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He looked nothing like what he did earlier that morning. The wig he had on was black, with the hair layered in waves. It made him look like an aging rock star from the 1990s. His cheeks and under-chin had gained half an inch in volume, making his face look unhealthily puffy. His peppery goatee was thick, but well trimmed. His eyes – light blue. His fake nose looked like it had been broken at least a couple of times.
Twenty seconds went by with no reply from the house. Mr. J stepped closer, bringing his right ear to an inch from the door. No sound from inside. He knocked again, a little firmer this time. Another twenty seconds went by before he saw some movement through the beveled glass window.
‘Hold your fucking horses,’ a thick male voice called from inside, ‘I’m coming.’
Mr. J took a step back and cracked his knuckles.
The door was pulled open by a man who looked to be around the same age as Mr. J. He wore basketball shorts, an old pair of sneakers, and a blue tank top that seemed too small for his muscular physique. His strong arms were completely exposed.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, sizing Mr. J up. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood.
With the open door, Mr. J picked up the scent of food cooking in the background. Something spicy and greasy.
‘Mr. Williams? Michael Williams?’ Mr. J asked.
There was a moment of hesitation.
‘Who wants to know?’
Mr. J produced an almost perfect forgery of an LAPD’s detective badge. Even an expert would struggle to tell the difference.
‘I’m Detective Craig Lewis with the LAPD.’ Mr. J’s voice also sounded completely different. His tone had gone up about half an octave and the accent was typical of northern California.
In hearing those words and seeing the badge, Michael Williams’ demeanor changed slightly.
Mr. J noticed it.
‘I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?’
For a second, Michael Williams looked like he was debating what his next move should be.
‘What’s this concerning?’ he asked.
‘I think we would be better if we could talk inside,’ Mr. J replied.
Both men studied each other for a couple more seconds.
‘Sure,’ Michael Williams said, taking a step to the side.
Mr. J stepped forward, but as he was about to enter the house, Michael Williams lifted his right leg and delivered a front kick to Mr. J’s abdomen so powerful, it lifted him off the ground and sent him stumbling back at least six or seven feet. As Mr. J crashed on to the messy front lawn, he heard the front door slam shut.
‘Motherfu . . .’ He coughed frantically, trying to breathe in. The kick had knocked the air out of Mr. J’s lungs. He tried to get up, but pain forced him to sit back down for a couple more seconds. He brought his right hand to his stomach and squeezed his eyes tight. Finally. He was able to breathe life back into his limbs.
‘You sonofabitch.’ He got back on to his feet and ran towards the door.
Locked.
‘Arghhhh . . .’ Mr. J let out a full-of-frustration cry. He stepped back and, using all the power he had in hi
s muscles, threw his whole body, shoulder first, against the door. It rattled but that was about it.
‘Shit!’
He stepped back again and this time used his right leg to deliver a kick into the door handle. The door shook again, but it still didn’t open. He tried again. Nothing. One more time. Almost. Again, and this time Mr. J gave it everything he had. If this failed, he would use his gun.
SLAM!
The door finally flew open, cracking the doorframe and throwing splinters up in the air.
As he cautiously stepped into the house, Mr. J pulled out a Sig Sauer P226 Legion from his lower-back holster. The pistol was equipped with a silencer.
The front door took him straight into a sparsely furnished living room.
Empty.
Mr. J looked left, then right.
Nothing.
‘Jeffery?’ Mr. J called in a loud and angry voice, while taking in the room.
No reply.
‘Jeffery? C’mon, let’s talk.’
Silence.
Across the room from him there was a shut door. ‘The kitchen,’ he thought. To his right, a corridor would take him deeper into the house. There was no one there either.
Mr. J decided to go for the kitchen door. If he went for the corridor that would mean that he would have his back to the shut door. Never a good idea. He crossed the room and threw his back against the wall to the side of the door. He was about to try its handle when he heard the sound of a motorbike engine revving up. It hadn’t come from the front of the house. It came from the back, through the kitchen.
‘Motherfucker.’ Mr. J reached for the door handle.
Locked.
There was no way that he would be taking the time to kick this one in. Instead, he took a step back and aimed his pistol at the door lock. One barely audible ‘thuffft’ was all it took. The lock exploded out of the door as it swung open.
